


Extremities

by PenguinofProse



Series: Smutty Saturdays [30]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bellamy runs away after MW, Canon Divergence, Cave, F/M, Pining Bellamy, Pining Clarke, Post S2, Smangst, Smut, Smut and Fluff, Snow, snow cave, snuggles in the snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 16:28:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30024594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: In which Bellamy follows Clarke after Mount Weather, and they do not communicate well. Snowy weather finally gives them a push in the right direction.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: Smutty Saturdays [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930432
Comments: 21
Kudos: 109





	Extremities

**Author's Note:**

> Here's your actual scheduled smutty Saturday. Thanks to Zou for betaing this. We're in a world where Bellamy left with Clarke after Mount Weather and they've been on the run about a month and they're not doing so well. Happy reading!
> 
> Content note: canon-compliant depiction of low self worth, guilt etc.

Bellamy knew what he was doing when he followed Clarke into the forest after Mount Weather. He knew that was a big move – brave and foolish and really rather extreme.

But he has to admit, he didn't expect it to turn out quite like  _ this _ .

He thought Clarke would  _ get it _ . He thought she would understand that following her out here was really quite a big gesture, thought she would appreciate it and let him in. He thought she would realise that he must be pretty damn devoted to her, to drop everything and walk with her through the woods for goodness knows how long. Sure, he's not only here to be with her. He couldn't really face going back to camp either – he's had to make some tough choices in recent weeks and months. But all the same, he thought it was obvious that he wouldn't be here if it weren't the only way to stay by her side.

Turns out he thought wrong.

She barely speaks to him. It's  _ awful _ , honestly. She's cold and silent and she cries a lot at night when she thinks he's asleep.

He's never asleep, for the record.  _ Obviously _ he isn't. How could anyone sleep, after all he has lived through? Sure, he dozes sometimes, in the quiet hours just before dawn when his body falls into a fitful sort of rest. But he maintains that he does not truly  _ sleep _ .

But Clarke wouldn't know that, because she never asks.

He's at breaking point, he fears. Earth and life and Clarke have pushed him so far he's ready to snap. He opens his eyes this morning, no more ready to put up with the situation than he was when they made their beds in this cave last night – their carefully  _ separate _ beds, of course, because it has not occurred to Clarke that he might be here because he's stupidly, hopelessly in love with her.

This is it. He's going to leave, this morning. However much he feels drawn to Clarke, determined to protect her, he simply cannot do this any longer. He'll go back to camp and return with a medical team to take her back when he's calmed down, perhaps. Or maybe he'll -

He'll do no such thing. They're snowed in.

He sits up in his bedroll for a moment, simply stares out at the snow. He supposes he must be cold, sitting here like this, but he's honestly too drunk on frustration right now to feel it.

“It snowed.” Clarke says dully, somewhere off to his right.

No shit.  _ It snowed _ . She wasn't like this before, he could swear it. She was brighter and more talkative, once upon a time. He wishes he could bring that Clarke back, but he simply doesn't know how. He thought following her would be enough, damn it. He thought being here and caring about her was all it would take.

He doesn't know what else he can do.

“I'll go out and see if I can catch us some breakfast.” He says. That's a good idea, right? They need to eat, and it will get him out of here, give him a chance to burn off some of his frustrated energy.

“Don't be silly.” Clarke says firmly.

Huh. Right then.  _ Silly _ . He's pleased he bothered following a woman into the forest who thinks he's  _ silly _ .

To his surprise, she speaks up again. “It looks like it's pretty deep. I don't want you having an accident out there or getting hypothermia. It's not as if hunting will be easy in this weather, and we still have some meat from yesterday.”

So maybe she's trying to protect him, rather than just patronise him. That's something, he decides. That's probably the kindest she's been to him all week.

“Then what are we going to do instead?” He asks shortly. Is he supposed to just sit here in cold silence until the thaw? That could be  _ days _ .

Clarke looks about her, frowning. “We should stoke the fire. Good call bringing so much wood in last night. And then I guess we'll sit here and try not to freeze.”

He nods. There was a little compliment in there, wasn't there? Who knew cold weather could make Clarke comparatively warm?

He gets to his feet, adds wood to the fire. Enough to get it blazing in earnest again, but not so much that they will run out of fuel any time soon. Clarke, meanwhile, busies herself with portioning up small amounts of food and setting them down in two neat makeshift platefuls next to the fire.

Well, then. Looks like that's the seating plan. He's a little surprised to see their breakfasts so close together, really, but he's not complaining. That's the kind of casual intimacy he expected when he ran away with Clarke, and that has been sadly lacking – a little time sitting side-by-side over breakfast to help them both feel less alone in their guilt and grief.

He takes a seat, cross-legged on the floor, and tries to be subtle about edging even nearer to Clarke. He's just craving a little human contact, OK? He doesn't think that's so very surprising under the circumstances. He’s been on the run with her for a month and they’ve scarcely spoken, let alone  _ touched _ .

Clarke doesn't pull away, so that's something. She's been pulling away in every possible way since they left the gates of Camp Jaha, he sometimes thinks.

He eats his breakfast, takes a minute just to enjoy the fire and the fact that Clarke is only inches from his side. He can almost feel the warmth of her where their arms are close to touching, he thinks.

It's good. Better than it should be, probably – certainly better than the sum of its parts. He's just sitting on the floor of a cold cave eating yesterday's venison and silently breathing next to the woman he used to think was his best friend. But it's the most companionable atmosphere they've managed in some time. It's working through his frustration surprisingly well, loosening it like a good massage on tightly knotted muscles. Maybe he didn't need to go burn off his energy in the snow. Maybe he just needed a moment to be quiet and calm.

He gathers his thoughts, wondering whether he might say something to Clarke. Just a simple thank you for setting out breakfast? Or is this peaceful moment the time to take a risk and ask how she's really doing? He knows that her difficult behaviour of late must stem from grief rather than wilfulness, even if he sometimes finds it tricky to remember that in the heat of the moment.

“Clarke? How are -”

He breaks off abruptly, question falling away unfinished. Because Clarke has just  _ moved _ . She's just shuffled closer to him, her arm pressed up against his, their knees knocking together.

“Sorry.” She says, as if that was an accident.

But she never does move back, and he thinks that's rather revealing.

“What were you saying?” She asks now.

He gathers his courage a second time. “Nothing much. Just asking how you're doing.” He says, as if it's no big deal.

“Not bad. Cold I guess.” She offers with a strained smile.

He nods, takes that for what it is. She's not saying anything about the state of her head, and that's frustrating. But at least she's talking. And at least she's sitting here pressed up against him, and it's more closeness than they've shared in all the time they've been fleeing together.

It leaves him with an interesting problem. A  _ stupid _ problem, really. But in his defence, it's been a good couple of months since he slept with anyone. And he's always found Clarke attractive in an almost  _ intrusive _ way which has the power to distract him no matter what the circumstances. And she really is sitting very close to him, leaning into his side as if she cannot get enough of invading his personal space.

Yes. He knows it's pathetic, OK? He knows it's  _ silly _ . But he's half-hard just from sitting next to Clarke like this, and there doesn't seem to be anything much he can do about it.

He tries thinking calming thoughts, but he simply can't. All he can think, in this moment, is  _ Clarke _ . How much he misses her, even though she's been travelling with him all along. How warm she is, in this cold cave. How she shifted just then like she  _ wants _ to be close to him, but just isn't sure whether it's allowed.

Since the calming thoughts have failed, he tries distracting himself with a conversation.

“I'm sorry you're cold. Want me to get my blanket?”

“Yeah.” She agrees – short as has become her habit, but perhaps a little more lively than usual.

He does. He stands up and grabs his blanket, returns to their place by the fire. He sits down, makes sure to leave a careful inch between them this time. He cannot let his erection problem grow any worse. Then he wraps the blanket carefully around Clarke's shoulders and his own as he settles back into his seated position.

No sooner has he stopped fidgeting than Clarke closes the distance between them again.

“Sorry. Just – cold.” She explains herself, gripping her side of the blanket carefully.

He nods, smiles warmly despite himself. He's not seen her this vulnerable or  _ human _ in quite some time.

“It's OK. I'm sorry about the weather. Want me to put more wood on the fire?”

“No. I'm good like this if you are.” She says, shuffling closer still.

He's good. He's so good it's  _ pathetic _ . His cock is straining against his clothes, now, and he knows that's ridiculous when literally all she's doing is sitting next to him, but it cannot be helped. It's not as if he can simply switch it off.

They sit there a few moments longer. Bellamy wonders whether he ought to say something to keep the conversation going, but he doesn't know what. He's sadly out of practice at communicating with Clarke. He seems to remember they used to be able to talk each other's ears off all day about everything and nothing.

So much for that.

To say he's surprised when Clarke speaks up would be an understatement.

“We have enough food for a few days.” She points out. It's only a boring comment on logistics, perhaps, but it's good to hear her volunteering to talk.

“Yeah. We might have to be careful with firewood if this goes on much past tomorrow.” He offers.

“We can always burn my sorry excuse for a pillow.” She offers lightly.

He's momentarily stunned. That was a  _ joke _ , right? That was her joking about the little straw-stuffed pillow she tries to punch into a comfortable shape each night.

“I always wonder why you bother with that thing.” He says, trying to laugh and almost managing it.

She shrugs, turns it into a snuggle closer against his side. “I don't sleep very well. I had this idea that I'd sleep better if I was as comfortable as possible but it turns out it doesn't help.”

“I'm sorry.” He says simply. “I've not been sleeping well either.”

“You haven't?” She asks, looking up at him sharply as if this news comes as a surprise.

Is she really so numb to the world that she hasn't even noticed that?

He shrugs. It's not a big deal, is it? Or rather, it  _ is _ a big deal but it's far from the biggest deal they've got going on here. He'd willingly put up with the sleepless nights if only he had his closest friend back, rather than this broken stranger who seems to have replaced her.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't realise.” She tells him in a frantic rush. “I didn't mean – I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

“I know, but -” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Is there anything I could do to help?”

He doesn't even know where to start with that question. There are so many things she could do to help, from cuddling him closely at night to communicating more openly with him by day.

But he decides to start small.

“Maybe we could sit and chat like this before bed sometimes?” He dares to suggest. “That might be good.”

“Yeah. I'd like that.”

_ She'd like that _ ? Then why the hell isn't it already happening?

He stops asking himself that, very abruptly, as she snuggles ever closer into his side. Should he be brave and reach an arm around her? Or would that be too much? He doesn't want to scare her off, make her run out into the snow without him.

But he needs to do  _ something _ , damn it. His hard cock is practically ordering him to make a move, no matter how desperately he tries to ignore it.

He tries taking some calming breaths. He's being silly. He should just sit here quietly. He's being  _ stupid _ , to get so thoroughly aroused by something as simple as his good friend and fellow fugitive leaning up against him by the fire.

He wonders if she's noticed. The tent in his pants is not exactly subtle, even through the layers of blanket and thick winter trousers. But is this broken Clarke, so out of touch with the world around her, capable of observing things like that?

Apparently not. She's leaning closer still, reaching across him to take the edge of the blanket clutched in his hand. What's going on with that? Is she trying to cocoon both of them more closely in it?

He's destined never to find out. She jumps back sharply the moment their hands make contact.

“Your fingers are freezing!” She half-cries. It's quite the most enthusiastic he's heard her sound about anything in weeks.

“Yeah, sorry. Snowing.” He says lightly.

“They shouldn't be that cold. You'll get frostbite. What if there's something else wrong? Do you have a history of poor circulation?” She asks, growing increasingly frantic, reaching back out to grasp his hand and pull it close to her body.

It confuses him. Does she honestly care so much about his wellbeing – even when she has scarcely stirred herself to speak to him, some days? He considers his answer for a moment, decides this is the perfect opportunity to both soothe her fears and pass his current inconvenient situation off with a joke. She's bound to notice that bulge sooner or later.

He gives a staged laugh. “I don't know if you noticed, but my blood is kind of busy elsewhere right now.” He says, nodding towards his crotch.

She doesn't laugh. She gapes at him – or more specifically at his lap, eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open.

“Is that -? Do you -?”

_ Is that a raging erection? Do you want me to wrap my legs around your waist and never let go? _

Yeah, something like that.

He tries to cover the moment with another false chuckle. “Come on, Clarke. You've seen a boner before. I guess it's just been a while and we're sitting pretty cozy here.”

She nods. She swallows loudly. And then she makes things even  _ more _ cozy. She finally takes that corner of blanket from him, cocoons them both snugly. That done, she reaches inside the blanket for his hand and curls her own around it.

No, she's evidently unsatisfied with that. Apparently his hand is still too cold for her liking. She tucks the edges of the blanket under her arm and reaches for both his hands, bringing them up towards her face.

And then? Then she starts  _ blowing _ on them. It's the strangest thing, puffs of warm air ghosting over his skin as her lips hover close to his fingers.

“Better?” She asks softly.

He laughs, a little hysterical. He's not sure about  _ better _ . It certainly hasn't made his cock any softer – quite the opposite. And he can feel his hands tingling, but he can't figure out whether that's warmth or the unaccustomed closeness.

“Not sure.” He hedges, unhelpful but honest.

She tries a new tactic. She guides his hands under the blanket and, of all things,  _ straight up her clothes _ . She just tugs her coat and shirt aside and pulls his hands against her stomach, face set in firm lines against the sudden cold shock.

He's touching Clarke's bare skin, and it's really not how he hoped it would be.

“That's warmer.” He tells her at once. “It's not really helping with the other thing. Sorry.” He wonders about adding some reassuring comment like  _ it's nothing personal _ , but that would be a lie. And however strange things have been between them since they left Camp Jaha, he is not in the habit of lying to Clarke.

She seems unconcerned – or maybe that's just the blank face she's been wearing recently.

“It's OK.” She says simply. “I guess it would be a good way to warm up if you want to try it.”

“What – sex?” He asks. That seems to be what she's implying, but he cannot entirely believe it.

“Yeah. Up to you. Might kill two birds with one stone.” Of course. Logical Clarke with her logical choices.

“We probably shouldn't. It wouldn't be very fun for you while my hands are so cold.” He offers, apologetic. As if  _ that's  _ the reason they shouldn't, rather than the risk of heartbreak.

“I don't mind. Really. I'd be more than happy.” She says at once.

Huh. She'd be  _ more than happy _ , would she? That's interesting, he thinks, because she seems to have been rather  _ less _ than happy of late. Could he do something to make her world a little brighter, here?

Once that idea takes hold, there's no way he can say no.

“OK then. If you're sure you want to. How are we doing this?” He asks, hoping he doesn't sound too eager.

“All our clothes off and all the blankets on?” She suggests.

“Naked blanket fort. Got it.”

She laughs a little, already getting started on wriggling out from under the blanket. He sits there for a moment, simply relishing the fact she just laughed at his silliness. He's missed her laugh.

Then he stirs himself, takes her hint, gets started on setting up a bed of blankets and shedding his clothes hurriedly. He always hoped that it would be romantic, if ever he slept with Clarke. That they would take their time and strip each other slowly, tenderly, with plenty of kisses along the way.

But he understands why it has to be like this. He understands that practicality demands it, here and now, while they are in a freezing cave. He's just overjoyed that he gets to do this at all, really. That's not just his cock talking – it's his heart, too. He's desperately hoping that he might be able to coax out Clarke's more human side along the way.

Within seconds, they are both naked and have dived under the blankets. Bellamy doesn't waste a moment – he gets straight on with pulling Clarke in for a rather intimate naked hug.

“So this is new.” He jokes, carefully light.

She actually giggles, and it feels like victory. “Yeah. Sorry it's a bit...  _ businesslike _ ?”

“Brisk? Cold?” He adds, laughing. “It's OK. It's  _ good _ . We'll make the best of it.”

“Great. How do you want to get started?”

“Is this OK? Me touching you like this?” He asks, running a hand over her back. “I'm sorry, I know my hands are freezing.”

“It's good. They're cold but it still feels nice.” She admits, a little quiet.

He honestly nearly bursts into tears. It's been an emotional morning, huh? His control is already stretched rather thin. But there's something utterly heartbreaking about Clarke just lying in his arms and saying softly that it feels  _ nice _ to be touched. It's like she can't quite believe he wants to have his hands on her, he thinks.

And it's a little like having his old Clarke back, too. The Clarke who knew how to be vulnerable with him, even if she had her mask on for everyone else.

“Can I kiss you?” She asks, still in that same tentative voice.

He answers by doing it himself, by pressing his lips to hers and tasting her surprise as she gasps into his mouth. Her lips are soft and warm – or maybe his are cold. And she wastes no time, deepening the kiss at once, already teasing him with her tongue.

It's a lot. It's too fast, probably. But Bellamy is enjoying it far too much to care.

“What do you want?” She asks now, the sounds smudging against his lips. “What do you like? What can I do for you?”

“I don't mind as long as we're warm and close like this.” He admits. “What do you like?”

She shakes her head, as if physically shaking off his question. As if she's not allowed to like  _ anything _ , any more.

He thinks he knows how she feels. This is already the happiest he has allowed himself to be since they pulled that lever.

They keep it simple, in the end. He's not sure whose idea it is – maybe they both instinctively come up with the same plan. But they stay more or less as they are, front pressed to front. Bellamy rocks over onto the top, simply slips his cock inside of her. It's hardly groundbreaking, but it's everything he needed – warm and close and stunningly intimate after so long feeling cold and alone, despite their shared misadventure.

It seems to be what Clarke needs, too. She's clinging to him tightly, her hands roaming over his back and shoulders and occasionally tugging at his hair. She's not saying much, but she's making the most adorable little breathy moans that tug hard at his heartstrings. And then she really shows him how much she needs this, getting her legs high up around his hips as if she is trying to wrap herself entirely around him.

It's  _ everything _ . It's exactly how he dreamed they would be. Not the setting or the soundtrack, perhaps. He imagined a soft bed and a whole heap of healthy communication. But the body language, the way she blatantly wants to get as close to him as possible, is everything he has ever wanted for them.

It's beyond strange, to find that in a cold cave.

He's going to come soon. He's not even embarrassed about it by this point – it's just a natural consequence of getting so riled up after so long untouched. But he wants to hang on just a little longer, just to see what noise Clarke is going to make as she tumbles over the edge. Those tiny moans are quite something, but he wants to hear her be loud for him for a change. She's been too quiet recently, and he doesn't like it.

She's there. She's letting out a high-pitched  _ whine _ , almost like a wounded animal. And then she's clenching around him, clinging ever tighter with her legs as he spills inside of her in turn.

He stays put for a few minutes, wondering where the hell they go from here. That was  _ incredible _ . It was cold and uncomfortable and unoriginal too, of course. But it felt so good to be close to her, after all the distance in their relationship of late, that he finds himself almost overcome by emotion.

“Warmer?” Clarke asks softly.

He tries to clear his throat. He doesn't quite manage it, gives a loud cough and then a sticky swallow.

“Yeah. Much warmer. Thanks.”

“Good.”

He's still lying there. His cock is still in place, gradually going limp inside of her. His hands are still tucked under her back, hers still gripping at his shoulders.

“So what happens now?” He asks, carefully light. He pulls out because he supposes he really should, sort of hovers awkwardly above her.

“I might try to get some more sleep.” She says, quiet, not meeting his eyes. “We're not going to go far in this weather and – like I said, I'm not sleeping well.” She pauses, swallows loudly. “And I guess I feel a bit more relaxed and tired now.”

He smiles slightly to himself. This is progress. This is  _ definitely _ progress, and it leaves him feeling warm in a very particular way.

“That's a great idea. I might try it too.” He says, carefully casual.

“OK. Yeah. Shall we just stay like this where we're warm?” She suggests.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” He rolls off her slightly, pulls her in for a close hug instead. “This OK?”

“Perfect.” She whispers, snuggling closer into his chest.

He presses a kiss to the crown off her head before he falls asleep. He just can't resist it, really – or maybe he doesn't  _ want _ to resist it. He wants to show her that he cares about her. That seems to help, he thinks. She seems a little more open and chatty since he started doing that this morning.

Or maybe this is just the sex speaking, and she'll be cold as ice again by the afternoon.

…....

He wakes up and Clarke is still in his arms. That's a good sign, he thinks. That's encouraging – she hasn't fled back to the far side of the fire.

She's awake, too. He can feel her wriggling and thinks that's probably why he woke up. But he doesn't want to give this up – doesn't want to let her go – so he keeps his eyes closed and his breath carefully calm, trying to pretend he's still asleep. It's deceptive, yes, but it's for her own good, he tells himself. He just wants to keep coaxing her back out of this grave she seems to have dug for herself.

He falls asleep again. At least, he thinks he does. It's not clear. He's tired, and hasn't slept much at all recently, and his body falls into a kind of lethargic doze, apparently catching up on rest while he has the chance.

By the time he finds himself fully awake, the light is already starting to fade from the sky at the mouth of the cave. He knows the winter days are short, but that's still one hell of a long nap.

He lies there a little longer, just holding Clarke. He's definitely been asleep a long time – he's feeling very thirsty. But he's not about to leave this perfect place just for the sake of some water.

She's silent. He doesn't know whether she's awake and has forgotten how to speak to him again, or whether she's still asleep.

“Clarke? You awake?” He whispers, barely audible.

“Yes.” She says simply.

And that's it. No follow-up question. No further details. No conversation of any kind whatsoever.

Well, then. Looks like she's stopped speaking again. But he's confused, really, by the fact she's chosen to keep lying here if that is the case. Is she craving physical closeness as much as he is? Is there something about hugging that is easier than talking?

No. She's just tired and still waking up. He realises that, rather abruptly, when she sits up. She tugs the blankets away from his shoulders as she does that, too. It's a cold awakening in more ways than one.

“I need to go take a bathroom break.” She announces. “I'll bring some snow back in for water. And we should eat some more of that venison.”

“Sure.” He agrees, trying not to let his disappointment show on his face.

He fails. He's pretty sure of that. Clarke gives him a look that he can't read, closed-off and rather taut.

It just hurts so much. He thought they were doing better. He thought a cuddle and a screw and a little honest conversation about sleeplessness was a good start – and he thought that the way they slept so well in each other's arms was the most encouraging sign of all.

But right now, Clarke is marching towards the mouth of the cave without looking back.

…....

It's an unpleasant evening – or rather, it is much the same as the evening before it, but it feels even more unpleasant for the fact that this morning was so lovely. Bellamy is devastated to have his hopes dashed. He thought maybe there were better things on the horizon, damn it.

Apparently all that's on the horizon is another cold snowstorm.

They sit by the fire, but not like they did earlier. They do not touch now, and that careful inch of space remains in place. Clarke sews up a three-day-old hole in her leggings incredibly slowly, and Bellamy has absolutely nothing to do but stare at her and try not to cry.

He just thought things would be  _ different _ . He thought they would support each other through their grief and guilt. He doesn't know what he did wrong to make such a mess of it. He's always been one for showing his feelings rather than talking about them, for acting from the heart. Wasn't following her out into the unknown enough of a clue that he wants to be here for her in every possible way?

Apparently not. She stabs at her leggings, almost gets her own thigh by mistake.

“How are your hands?” She asks, apparently out of the blue.

“Fine.” He says. It's the honest truth – he's been holding them close to the fire while he has nothing else to occupy him.

“That's good. How about your feet?”

“What?”

“Your feet. Are they cold?”

“Not too cold.” He answers honestly.

Then he realises that's maybe not what she was asking. It's just an impression he gets, somehow, from her soft tone and persistent questions about his wellbeing. From the way she clung to him earlier, too, even if she seems rather more distant now.

Maybe it's time to act from the heart again, he thinks. Maybe following her out here in the first place wasn't enough to show her she can share anything with him. Maybe there's more he can do to close the distance between them.

He shuffles nearer to her side. She doesn't pull away – on the contrary, she leans in a little in turn. And then he gathers his courage and reaches out to take the hand which is working away at her leggings.

“You want me to do this?” He asks, prising the needle from her fingers.

“What?”

“Let me fix it for you. My mum used to sew clothes for a living.”

“I didn't know that.” Clarke says quietly.

He smiles softly. “Well now you do.”

She nods. She watches closely while he makes quick, neat work of the small tear in her leggings.

“My dad was an engineer.” She murmurs, to his surprise.

“I know.” He says softly, because it's the truth. “A good one, from what I hear.”

“Apparently your mum was a good seamstress.” She says, with a nod at his neat stitches.

He shrugs. “I thought so. I thought she was pretty amazing at most things to be honest. Even though she kept Octavia and put that on me – she still did her best to be a good mum. I still loved her despite her faults.” He says pointedly.

She nods. He gets the sense she didn't really take his point, there.

He tries again. He sets the needle safely aside in her kit bag, and decides it's about time he reached an arm around her. He pulls her close, rubs his hand up and down her arm over the top of her jacket. It's not really making his hand any warmer, but it's making him feel better all the same.

“You want me to get the blankets again?” He asks. She seemed to like the closeness earlier, as best as he can tell.

“Yeah. You sure your toes aren't too cold?” She asks again.

He wants to laugh, almost. He thinks he's getting the hang of this, now. She's asking after the health of his extremities because she doesn't know how else to show him she still cares, even when she's struggling. Either that or she wants to have sex with him again.

If he's really lucky, maybe it's a little bit of both.

“I'm OK. But if you want to cuddle for warmth again I won't say no.” He tells her, raw and honest, pressing the softest kiss to her forehead.

She leaps at him. There's no other word for it. All at once she's throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his, clinging to him as tightly as she was wrapping her legs around his waist earlier.

Well, then. He's  _ definitely  _ not going to say no.

It's easier, this time. Smoother. They get themselves undressed and cuddled under the blankets quickly, reach for each other instinctively. They start kissing hotly, chasing the cold away. Bellamy's cock hardens fast, and before he has time to so much as catch his breath Clarke is already grabbing at his butt and pulling him into place.

It's funny. Shouldn't it be  _ less _ urgent, the second time round? Shouldn't they be calmer because they both got off this morning? But this is more frenzied than ever, now. For his part, Bellamy simply cannot wait to get on with it. He knows how good it's going to be, knows how it feels to have Clarke cling to him. He's desperate to feel that way again.

She doesn't let him down. As soon as he starts rocking his hips, Clarke has her legs wrapped tight around his waist and is groaning softly against his mouth.

“That's it.” He murmurs – almost  _ coos _ . “Feels so good, Clarke.” He didn't really dare talk to her, last time, but the words demand to be said.

“S'good.” She agrees breathily, gives way to another groan.

“You're OK. You can make as much noise as you want. There's no one out here to hear us.” He teases a little.

She giggles against his cheek, tight and high-pitched with arousal.

“I mean it. You're OK. Relax and enjoy it.” He recommends.

She tries. He can almost  _ feel _ how hard she's trying. She's breathing a little too carefully, for someone panting in the heat of a moment. Her legs are tense with something more than only arousal, he thinks, and her kisses are more determined and desperate than relaxed.

But that's OK. It's just to be expected, maybe. They've been through a lot, and he figures this is a good start on helping each other out.

He starts to form a little plan, even as he's rocking his hips, even through the haze of pleasure. Clarke's important to him, so that sharpens his concentration. He thinks it could be great if they keep sleeping together, if he can keep encouraging her to relax and feel good. He plans to make a point of sitting next to her at the fire in future, too, and doing what he can to help her sleep.

The talking might still be the hard part. He's really not sure what he's going to do about that. He and Clarke have never needed to  _ work _ at difficult conversations before now, never needed to force the issue. At the dropship or at Camp Jaha they would simply fall into talking comfortably about tough choices with each other.

But it's going to be OK. He's determined on that.

He will make sure of it.

“You too.” Clarke's voice surprises him.

“What?” He's lost her, there.

“You relax too. Want you to enjoy it.” She pants, breathless, and a little sad, he thinks.

“I am.” He tells her around a laugh. “It's good. You feel perfect.” He admits.

She snorts a little – or maybe that's just her breathing getting away from her.

“You do. Love the way you've got your legs around me.” He tells her. “Love it when you hold me tight.”

She gasps, squeezes him ever tighter. It feels so good. It's everything he wants – Clarke grabbing hold of him as if she'll never let go. As if she wants him by her side, forever and always.

As if she's happy he followed her out here.

That does it. That tips him over the edge, groaning her name as his hips shudder against her. She's there too, letting out a little whine as she presses her face into his chest to ride out her orgasm.

Silence falls. Bellamy stays put for a moment, still hugging Clarke tightly, pressing the occasional kiss to the top of her head.

And then the silence is broken by a harsh sudden sob.

Bellamy pulls away, stunned. Clarke is  _ weeping _ ? She's sobbing loudly straight after sex with him? That's  _ awful _ . He needs to fix it, needs to figure out why, needs to -

She doesn't let him pull away. She clings to him as he goes, her legs still wrapped right around him.

“Clarke?” He prompts her softly.

“'M sorry.” She mumbles, barely audible through the sobs.

“Don't be. You're OK. You want me to stay or -?”

She nods frantically, face still buried in his chest.

Well, then. He considers his options, ends up rolling them both onto their sides so he can hold her tight in a slightly more comfortable position. Clarke doesn't seem to care which way up they are – she seems to care about nothing besides weeping against his chest.

Huh. This is really not how he hoped this would go down. He was thinking they might lie and nap together afterwards like they did this morning. That was rather lovely.

And yet this is what is happening, so he supposes he had better work with it. So much for that plan he was trying to form earlier, of more cuddles and gently easing into conversation about the real issues. It seems like they are diving head first into trauma, today, and that's just how it is.

Clarke always was better at making plans, he thinks ruefully.

“You're OK.” He repeats, murmuring in what he hopes is a calming voice. “I've got you. Just stay here and let it all out.”

Another frantic nod, another storm of tears.

He finds himself tearing up as she continues, presses his own damp cheeks into the crown of her hair. He keeps murmuring useless affectionate nonsense to her – or rather, he  _ feels _ like it's useless. He's trying to find the right words to tell her he's right by her side no matter what happens, but he's not entirely sure he's succeeding.

“You're safe.” He tells her. That seems like something she might need to know. “I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere.”

Oh. That has her sobbing even harder. Maybe that wasn't the right thing to say.

He doesn't speak so much, after that. He's frightened of getting it wrong. He just holds her, rubbing his hand up and down her back, pressing kisses to her hair.

At last, her tears slow to a stop. But even then, he doesn't push it. He's been frustrated with her lately, yes, but it's difficult to feel frustrated now he's seen first-hand just how broken she's feeling. He should have realised there was something serious going on, perhaps. She did walk right out into the unknown, and she has been acting very strange. But there's something about a storm of sobs that really brings the point home.

He doesn't ask her what's wrong. He simply holds her, strangely grateful that at least she wants to stay close to him in her silence, now.

At length, she speaks.

“I'm sorry. I know you're not here for this.” She says.

He frowns. He can't make sense of that.  _ You're not here for this _ ? What the hell does she mean by that?

“I don't know what you mean.” He admits honestly. “I guess I didn't follow you  _ hoping _ you would cry, no. But – I am here to hug you when you do cry, if you want me to be.”

“No, I mean – it's not fair. We're both here to get some space and.... find peace. It's not fair that I put this on you. I've been trying so hard not to do that.” She says, audibly annoyed with herself, now trying to pull away from his arms.

No. Absolutely not. He's not having that – not when he has finally,  _ finally _ , started to understand what the hell is going on here.

He lets her go physically, of course. He's not going to hold her naked body against her will. He loosens his hold until she’s apart from him, yet still inside the same cocoon of blankets.

But he's not letting this topic drop, thank you very much.

“That's not what I'm here for.” He tells her firmly.

“What?”

“That's not what I'm here for.” He repeats. “I'm not here for  _ space _ or  _ peace _ . I know I'll never come to terms with what we did unless I work through it together with  _ you _ . So I'm not here to live like some silent monk. I thought you knew that – I thought I was pretty obvious about it. If I wanted some time to myself I'd have walked the other way out of Camp Jaha, wouldn't I? There's a reason I followed you that day, Clarke. Yeah, I'm partly here for me. I'm here because I pulled that lever too, and I don't know how to live with it. But I'm also here for  _ you _ .” He concludes, voice echoing too loud in the draughty cave, as he lets all his recent frustration out.

His words hang there in the air, heavy and dangerous, for perhaps one second which feels like an eternity.

And then they fall, crashing to the ground all at once as Clarke dives back into his embrace. She has her arms tight around his shoulders, her face pressed to his neck, and he thinks he can hear her start to weep again.

Maybe it's a better kind of weeping this time? He's not sure.

“I didn't know.” She snuffles. “Or – I thought I knew, and that you  _ weren't _ here for me. How could you be, after everything I did?”

He shrugs. There's no point even answering that. He'll always be here. He can't pretend that what she did was OK, but he'd do anything for her, no matter what she's done. He’ll see the good in her, no matter how hard the circumstances try to hide it.

“I'm sorry. I haven't been here for you like I should have been.” She murmurs now.

He thinks about that. She hasn't been here for him with heartfelt conversation, true. But she has been here with hugs, today, and with fussing over his risk of frostbite. And as soon as he starts looking at it like that, he can see other things, too. The way she always tries to give him a bigger portion of supper, even though she does it wordlessly. The way she lays his bedroll closest to the fire if he gives her even half a chance.

The way she stares at him sadly, sometimes, when she thinks he isn't looking.

“It's OK. I forgive you. We're both a bit of a mess.” He says. That might just be the understatement of the century, he thinks.

She laughs damply, hugs him ever tighter. “Yeah. Maybe we should figure that out together? Someone very wise just suggested that to me.”

He grins, rubs his cheek against her hair a little. “Me? Very wise? Can I get that in writing?”

She laughs in earnest, now, and pulls back so she can look him in the eyes. It's remarkable, he thinks, how much brighter she looks already. They haven't actually started figuring out their emotional baggage yet, just agreed that they intend to work on it together. And already she's behaving like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

It's as if she has been feeling just as lonely as he has, of late. Just as lost and isolated and cut off.

“Thank you.” She says simply, meeting his gaze head-on and unflinching.

“Thank  _ you _ .” He bounces right back at her. “Thanks for... this. For talking about it.” He swallows thickly. “I was really missing you. Does that sound crazy? I know you were right here but -”

“I don't feel like I've been all here.” She concludes for him. “I still  _ don't  _ feel like I'm all here.”

“Me neither. But I do feel better when I have you.” He admits, reaching a selfish hand to cup her cheek.

She leans into his touch, skin pressing soft against his palm. She simply sits there for a moment, eyes red, smiling a sad smile. And yet Bellamy thinks that she has never looked so beautiful to him as she does in this moment, when they are finally on more or less the same page.

At length, she speaks again.

“You wandered off into the woods for me.” She says. It's not a question this time – it's an answer, confident and steady. “For  _ me _ as well as for yourself.”

“Yeah.”

“You – uh -” She grinds to a halt, tries again. “I must be quite important to you.”

“Yeah.” He agrees easily, rubbing his thumb softly over her cheekbone.

“That's good.” She says.

A moment's pause. Clarke swallows loudly, takes a deep breath.

“That's good. Because I've been in love with you for  _ weeks _ . And it turns out it kind of sucks, when you know you're a monster and you think the person you love sees you that way too.”

He shakes his head urgently. “I don't, for the record. I can see why you think it, and we can work on that. But when I look at you I just see  _ Clarke _ . I see someone I love, too.”

She smiles a tentative smile, leans in for a kiss.

He kisses her back. Of course he does – he loves her, and she loves him, and kissing her is fast becoming one of his favourite activities.

But even as he's kissing her, he's thinking about something else. He's puzzling out why this conversation is ringing so many bells in his mind. This is where they started out, isn't it? Not in a snowy cave but slumped on the forest floor, him fearing he had become a monster, Clarke telling him she could still see the good in him.

Maybe that's their thing. To see the best in each other, come what may – that's what love is, he figures.

That's why he says it, when she pulls away from the kiss. When she makes a game attempt at her old brisk decisiveness and asks a pointed question.

“Should we start now? Should we try to talk about everything?”

“No. You need to get some more rest.” He gives a slight nostalgic smile, leans in to press a little kiss to her forehead, too. “We can figure it out later.”

That's what she did for him, that day, when he found himself at the end of his tether. And today it's his chance to offer the same gift to her in his turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
